


Hanakotoba

by whydidoth



Category: Countdown to Countdown (Webcomic)
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Some angst, and there was only one bed, maybe not the healthiest of relationships tbh, post page 182, the rituals of intimacy are intricate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-19 01:14:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29742732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whydidoth/pseuds/whydidoth
Summary: There are three bottles of hot sauce in Lillium's grocery bag, each one a different spice level. Iris's hand clenches around the bottle of Huy Fong chili sauce, the same brand Rosalie used to get for him.
Relationships: Iris Black/Lillium White
Comments: 1
Kudos: 10





	Hanakotoba

**Author's Note:**

> Some general warnings:  
> mild swearing  
> mild gore mentions  
> light religion mentions  
> allusions to panic attacks  
> allusions to disassociating

With what Iris thinks is a passably steady hand, he threads the needle back through the stiff denim of his jeans. The eye of the needle gets caught, and in his attempts to pull it fully through the fabric without stabbing himself again, the tip of the needle snags on his attempts to sew even stitches, resulting in some of the threads being pulled loose. Exhaling heavily through his nose, he grabs the tiny pair of scissors from inside that sewing kit that Lillium had gotten from who knows where. The thread is cut easily, and he undoes what accounts for the past twenty minutes of work. The tear in the knee of his jeans was too wide to simply sew closed, a fact he realized after attempting as much and having the pant leg no longer fit quite properly. Now, Iris sews long, loose loops criss-crossing over one another. There are no spare clothes to cut a patch from, so he makes do.

Iris rethreads the needle, dampening the end of the thread slightly in his mouth. He holds the needle at eye-level until the dim light catches upon the metal. The single lamp within the hotel room is shut off, leaving everything to be cast in a blue palette with heavy shadows save for the single strip of light cast through where Iris had not bothered to pull the curtains fully shut. Dust motes swirl together in the light, crafting intimate dances together of which he cannot find the pattern. The light makes the room feel darker like something only vaguely thought of before drifting off to sleep with its edges blurred and uncertain. There is movement outside the window, a bustling market reduced to smudges of color by the distance and the dust cloud that has settled permanently over Seattle.

His hand pauses halfway through a stitch, distracted as a bright color flashes past. Perhaps someone had tied their bandana too loosely, and the wind decided to snatch it away. Iris aches like bark being pulled from a tree, watching all the reds and oranges and deep browns breathe and bustle and live. Iris shifts, and the shadows shift with him.

The pants are not sewn perfectly. They are arguably not even sewn well, but they are sewn enough. Small pricks pepper his fingers, forgotten soon after the pain faded, but the impressions of them are still there if he were to look closely enough. He stands from the chair, the skin on the back of his bare legs peeling painfully away from the floral patterned pleather of the armchair. His legs buzz beneath his weight, readjusting to blood pulsing through them. Iris pulls his jeans on, the fabric stiff from how many times he has washed it in hotel sinks with nothing but a bar of soap this past week. His toes catch on the loose stitches, and he hops around the room while trying to untangle himself. Iris can only hope that if the people staying in the room downstairs can hear his thumping, they’ll assume that it’s something less embarrassing than tripping over his own pants while essentially half-naked.

The pants are eventually put on properly, the stitches miraculously still intact. His socks and shoes he slips on easily before making his way past the small kitchenette and to the door. As his hand brushes over the door frame, he pauses then turns back around and walks to where his bag is discarded by the foot of the bed. He tears part of a page from his sketchbook and fishes one of his markers from where it’s managed to fall to the very bottom.

Lilium,

He crosses the name out.

Lillyum,

He crosses that out too. He’s been travelling with Lillium for over a week but still doesn’t know how to spell his name. It just seems a bit awkward to ask someone who you’ve shared a handful of near-death experiences with what the correct spelling of their name is.

I’m up on the roof. --Iris

Satisfied, Iris folds the paper scrap to stand upright and places it on the pillow. With one final glance back to make sure the note hasn’t fallen over, he slips out of the room. He props the door partially ajar with an old bible from the desk drawer on account of that Lillium took the room keys when he left earlier, and Iris would prefer to not be locked out of his room again. The roof isn’t accessible via the elevator, so he instead makes his way up the winding stairwell, his steps reverberating against the metal and the echoes compounding over themselves until the stairwell is filled with the sounds of ghosts that only distantly recall music. The door at the very top which leads to the roof access is locked, a red and white sign pinned to it politely stating that the area is for employees only. Iris makes quick work of drawing a second smaller door within the first and pushes it open. After a moment’s hesitation, he does not erase it in case Lillium wants to join him up here later.

The air is warm in the way of a late afternoon: heavy and tired with the slight undercurrent of chill promised by evening. The sun has sunk halfway down the sky, a deep golden yellow Iris had seen for the first time in the yolks of Lillium’s eggs. He stares directly at it, squinting his eyes nearly shut when the brightness no longer allows him to look at it. The city at eye-level is awash in deep orange and yellow, reducing the landscape to a single palette. Iris looks up, tilting his head back until he can feel tension straining in his jaw. The sky above is a faded blue, darkening into gray as it descends.

The noise of the market is still audible up here, but it all merges together into indistinguishable rising and falling tones as though Iris had found himself in an unknown country surrounded by an unknown language. He leans over the edge, railing pressing into the soft skin of his stomach. He looks down at the people far below and feels wind brushing along his spine and the back of his head. He imagines falling. He takes a step back.

The hotel is not the tallest building in the city. Others tower higher in the distance, preventing him from seeing all the way to the horizon. Lillium told him that Seattle borders a bay that leads to the largest ocean in the world. He has never seen the ocean. He cannot see the ocean from here. The tower looms in the far distance, a pale and ever watching specter. Its form is rendered indistinct with the dust cloud between them, but Iris still knows it. He watches it, and it watches him back.

His hands seize and clench where they hang loosely by his sides. His sternum calcifies, only allowing the barest amount of air to be breathed into his lungs. He can feel his heartbeat beneath his eyes. He can feel the air shift as someone stands behind him, but when he flinches, looks over his shoulder, he is all alone on the rooftop.

Iris sits down, then releases his knees from where they are pressed up against his chest and unwinds to lie flat against the ground. The roof is not smooth concrete, instead uneven ridges and lumps dig through the thin fabric of his tank top and press against the bare backs of his arms. His body pulses beneath him. Bum-bum-bum-bum-bum-bum. The emphasis always on the second note.

The warmth of the sun traces gentle fingers across the bridge of his nose, his cheeks, his forehead. It threads its fingers through his hair, pressing gently upon his scalp. He closes his eyes to feel the warmth on his eyelids, and the homogenous noise rising from the market makes the air feel full and quiet. It feels safe. His breaths slow, and he allows himself to rest.

Iris awakes with a flinch, head slamming back into the concrete, so spots of black spin across his vision while he waits for the pain to fade. A bag of groceries lies beside his head, presumably the source of the crashing noise that startled him awake. He notices Lillium only as an afterthought. Lillium kneels beside Iris, face pale and pupils shrunk to pinpricks. His hair, already usually askew, seems to have decided to completely disregard gravity as it sticks out in every direction. His hand is outstretched but faltering in its motion. It is quickly withdrawn back to his side when he notices Iris glancing at it.

They stare at each other for a moment and then two. Iris remembers that he’s still lying down and slowly stands up, movements lagging as grogginess clings to him. Lillium rises with him. The sun has set more while Iris was asleep, and its light catches upon Lillium’s hair, turning it a dark orange. Idly, Iris wonders whether Lillium’s hair is naturally pink or if he dyes it to match his eyes. Lillium is still staring at him, saying nothing. Iris shifts uncomfortably, brushing at his arm, so a few pebbles dislodge from his skin and skatter upon the ground.

“You weren’t in the room.”

He bristles, shoulders hunching up toward his ears and eyebrows furrowing until the skin of his forehead feels tight. A child being scolded for improper behavior. A soft pout and a tilted head, perfectly manicured fingers pressing into the skin beside the mouth but careful to not smudge the bright red lipstick.

“I left a note.”

“It doesn’t matter if you left a note or not,” Lillium snaps. “I told you to not leave the room while I was gone.”

“You told me to not leave the hotel. The roof is still a part of the hotel.”

“I told you not to leave the room because you’re an annoying child that can’t follow even the most basic of instructions. You think you can just do whatever you want, and everyone will just cater to your every whim. Oh Iris, so special, the beloved son. You’ve never learned an ounce of responsibility. I swear to God, you’re so selfish. You just completely ignore everything I ask you to do, and do you know what happens? We get targeted by bounty hunters, or you get kidnapped, or you get us almost killed by an insane Lotus. If it was only you, then you know what? Have fun being murdered and scrapped for parts in less than twenty-four hours. But I’m helping you get to Oregon because I owe you, and I don’t want to be killed just because some spoiled brat thought it would be more important to go up on a roof or wander off than to not put our fucking lives at stake.”

Iris’s throat burns as though he had swallowed shrapnel, tearing up the insides and blood dripping down into his lungs. His eyes sting, tears clinging to his lashes and casting sparkling colors across his vision as the light catches and reflects off of them.

“Who are you to scold me like that? Who do you think you are to demand I do something, and I’ll just say yes, sir! Of course, sir! We’ve known each other for a week. We’re nothing to each other! You’re just trying to fulfill your stupid debt, and I happen to benefit from staying with you for now. You really think I’m a brat? So entitled that you wish you had nothing to do with me? Fine! I’m sick of you treating me like a stupid leech as though I were begging you to stay rather than it being you who won’t leave me alone! Consider your debt repaid! If you really hate me so much, then just leave!”

Tears slip steadily down his cheeks, a few catching upon his lips. He wonders if the ocean would taste the same. Lillium watches him unblinkingly, the slight glow from his eyes casting spots of pink along the tops of his cheeks. No part of him moves save his hair, stirred gently by the wind. Even his chest does not rise and fall as though he was no longer breathing. He holds Iris’s gaze until he becomes blurred, Iris’s vision too clouded with tears.

Lillium turns on his heel and leaves.

Iris’s body becomes too light, the pieces of him set adrift before they are rapidly drawn back together like two magnets, inseparable even with distance between them. His head spins, cheeks too hot. He is gripping the railing, old bits of rust flaking off and sticking against his palms. He leans over the edge, hoping for an updraft to come cool him, but he only burns. Everything is too hot. The back of his neck is slick with sweat, dripping down from his hairline. The dust in the air settles over him, painting him with its grainy yellow pigment. A bead of sweat shivers at his temple before falling down, down. Iris wonders if it evaporated before reaching the ground, or if there is someone looking up now, wondering if it is about the rain. He sways and forgets himself. The tower in the distance has been lit up with thousands of lights, shining as a beacon. It watches over him just as it watches over all.

He returns to himself eventually. Fingers trembling and arms not quite attached, but all there, all belonging to him. He walks away from the edge and stoops to grab the grocery bag Lillium had dropped but failed to retrieve when he left. Iris exits the roof, getting rid of the door he drew and using the hem of his tank top to wipe away the marker to hide any trace of his presence. His fingers come away stained as well, black ink welling within the thin lines of his finger prints and a single thick line streaking across his palm. He wipes it against his thigh, hoping the black ink won’t be visible against his black jeans.

The door to the hotel room is closed, the handle not twisting as the little red light beside it reminds him of his lack of a key card. He glances down the hallway, making sure there is no one to see him. There are no security cameras in the corners of the hall, the hotel too poor and caring too little about their clientele to invest the money in ensuring any safety measures. Again, he pulls out his marker, and quickly slips inside the room. The bible that he had used to prop the door open has been kicked partially under the couch. He picks it up, unbending some of the pages in the middle, and places it back within the desk drawer.

Iris makes his way to the kitchenette, placing the plastic bag on the fake marble countertop. Inside, there is a carton of eggs, a loaf of bread, and a second plastic bag. He first withdraws the egg carton, the bottom of the carton damp with spilled yolk. Seven of the twelve eggs are in various stages of cracked: some with thin veins spidering across them and others missing their entire top halves. He picks them out between his thumb and forefinger and lets them drop down into the trash where the shells fully shatter and the yolks split to form a viscous yellow puddle at the bottom. He hesitates over one of the eggs. It only has one small crack toward the top. He throws this one away as well. The rest of the eggs he takes from the carton and places them on the countertop beside the sink, steadying them as they attempt to roll away.

The faucet coughs and sputters a few times before water spews out. Iris fiddles with the handle for a minute until the pressure of the water is no longer bruising. He rinses the eggs one by one, running his fingers over the smooth white shells until all the spilled innards from the broken eggs have been washed away. All done, he places them into the mini fridge across from the foot of the bed, pushing aside ridiculously overpriced sodas to make room for the eggs.

He goes back to the grocery bag, pulling out the second smaller one inside of it. In this second bag, there are three bottles of hot sauce, each one a different spice level. His hand clenches around the bottle of Huy Fong chili sauce, the same brand Rosalie used to get for him before. He feels tired, a heavy stone suddenly tied around his neck. He lines the bottles up in a row, knocking over the last one with how much his hand is shaking. It makes no sharp cracking noise to startle him into alertness, it being only plastic smacking against plastic masquerading as marble.

Iris fully closes the curtain windows. They face away from the tower and the setting sun, this half of the world already night. The hotel room is reduced to silhouettes. He walks slowly forward with his hands outstretched until he comes upon the lone lamp within the room. His hands fumble along it until finally coming across a switch. The light flares too bright before settling into a dim orange. It does little to brighten anything, on the contrary, it seems to darken and stretch the shadows around it. But it’s enough to see. The lamp emits a low, constant buzz like cicadas in the summer or power lines stretching across an empty road. The air beside the window is cold, the glass chilly to the touch.

There are pans in the drawer to the left of the stove, black scorch marks burnt across their silver surface and long, deep scratches through the non-stick coating. Iris withdraws the second smallest of the pans, cringing as they all crash against one another. The first burner he tries to light on the stove only leaks gas with a hiss. The second sparks once, then twice, then flares bright blue. He puts the pan over the fire and returns to the fridge to retrieve four eggs. He cracks two onto the pan, watching as the transparent white begins bubbling and solidifying at the edges. He shuffles around the kitchenette, opening and closing drawers at random until he comes across a spatula. When the whites appear to be done, he wiggles the spatula beneath and attempts in one fluid motion to flip them over. It is to no avail. Half of the egg white remains stuck to the pan while the other half is torn off. The yolk breaks and slowly seeps out, mixing with the whites. He retrieves a plate, blue ceramic with a chip in its edge, and puts a slice of bread on it. He then proceeds to scrape at the pan to get the eggs out, making them increasingly mangled with each attempt. His second trial with the other two eggs fairs only marginally better with one of the yolks remaining arguably in tack if the person making the argument looked at it from a different angle with squinted eyes and had a fundamental misunderstanding of what eggs were supposed to look like.

Iris takes the more mangled first batch for himself, pouring a heavy amount of the first hot sauce he grabs across it. The second plate he leaves untouched on the counter for when Lillium returns.

He eats his dinner of eggs on untoasted bread in the pleather armchair. The plate is balanced in his lap and the sandwich is held in one hand while his other hand picks at the peeling plastic of the armrest and tears out chunks of the foam interior that he proceeds to scatter on the floor. The buzzing of the lamp accompanies him while he eats.

Once finished, he stands with crumbs falling from his lap and brings the plate back to the kitchenette. He rinses the plate in the sink, watching the water morf the smears of hot sauce until they disappear. He shakes it dry and places it back down on the counter. 

Despite how dark it has become outside, the night is still relatively young. Iris paces then retrieves his sketchbook from his bag. He stares at a blank page, eyes straining in the dim light. He draws nothing before closing the sketchbook and putting it away again. 

He pulls off his jeans, making a half-hearted attempt to fold them properly before dropping them to lie in a crumpled heap on the floor. He removes his socks, throwing them on top of the pile. This leaves him standing in nothing save for his tank top and boxer shorts.

The bed is colder than the rest of the room when he slips into it. The linen sheets are unnaturally smooth, slipping over his skin each time he turns over. He rubs his legs together, attempting to create friction and warm himself up. He burrows deeper within the covers and brings his knees in toward his chest. The bed is slightly smaller than the one he slept in back in the tower, but when compared to the thin twin-sized ones he had been sleeping in for the past week, it feels too large. He stares at the ceiling for a while, pretending to be tired before climbing back out of bed.

The plate of eggs and bread on the counter have grown cold. He hesitates as he looks at it, poking the eggs gently and feeling them squish beneath the pressure. He pushes the eggs aside and examines the bread. It has grown soggy, seeped through with egg juices. He throws it all away and leaves the dirty plate in the sink. He passes by the lamp on his way back to the bed, flicking the switch off, so the room becomes totally encased in darkness. His eyes take a moment to adjust. It was not particularly loud before, but now the silence feels empty.

Iris gets back into the bed, curling into himself tighter and tighter. The day was draining. He is too tired to sleep.

Time slows into a molasses when everyone is asleep. The world rests a long moment by itself when there is no one there to observe it.

The is an electronic click and whine as a room key is inserted into the door, and the door swings open. With hinges too smooth, it knocks into the wall. Iris flinches. A tall figure stands in the doorway, backlit by the light of the hall, so none of their features are visible. The figure slips inside the room quietly, closing the door slowly, gently, so only a small click can be heard. Iris keeps perfectly still beneath the covers, keeping his breath shallow. Perhaps the person will not notice him and just leave when they realize there is nothing of value to be found here. Iris’s heart beats too loudly, the heavy steps of a giant making the earth tremble.

The figure shuffles about the room, knocking gently against the foot of the bed, then the couch, then the lamp as their eyes seem to still not quite be adjusted to the darkness. It’s only when they kneel down in front of the mini fridge, pulling the door open so blue-tinged white light spills out over their features and part of the room does Iris realize that it’s only Lillium. It seems the most logical conclusion in retrospect, and Iris can’t help but feel a bit silly. After all, what sort of burglar would have a key card? Lillium closes the fridge without taking anything from it.

Iris watches him in the darkness, thinking he can make out how Lillium takes off his leather jacket and gun holster, draping them both over the back of the armchair. His shoes he nudges to line them up against the wall. He makes his way back toward the couch, patting the seat cushions as though to wipe away imaginary dust. He lies down upon it, the plastic of the cushions rubbing together with an uncomfortable friction. Lillium’s head is on one of the armrests while his legs dangle off the other side.

“You’re too tall to sleep on the couch comfortably. You’ll hurt your neck and back if you sleep like that,” Iris says softly, half uncertain as to whether it was loud enough for Lillium to hear him.

Lillium turns his head to face Iris’s general direction, the movement signalled by more crinkling plastic.

“Did I wake you up?”

“No, I’ve been awake.” They share the silence together. “The bed is large enough for two people. I’d rather you sleep here with me rather than put up with you complaining about how sore you are tomorrow.” Iris rolls over and lifts the covers, some of the warmth escaping out into the room. “Come on, get under the covers with me before I freeze to death.”

“Well, we can’t have that.”

Lillium stands from the couch, and walks to the other side of the bed. He hesitates there, only watching.

“Come on.” Iris shakes the covers slightly as someone would a feather toy for their cat. Lillium concedes and crawls in. His weight dips the bed, forcing Iris to slide closer to the middle. Their legs brush against one another as they try to find a sleeping position that accommodates both of them.

“Are you still wearing your khakis?”

“Yes?” Lillium replies, uncertain as though he had forgotten that he was wearing pants.

“You can’t wear khakis in bed. I mean, you shouldn’t wear khakis in general, they’re old man pants.” Lillium’s hum of displeasure is ignored. “But you especially shouldn’t wear them to sleep. They’re too stiff and uncomfortable. Plus, you’re probably tracking dirt into the bed.”

“You were the one who wanted me in bed with you.”

“Yeah, you. Not your pants.”

“Why, Mr. Black,” Lillium begins with a truly cringe worthy attempt at a Southern accent. “First you invite me to your bed, now you’re trying to get me out of my pants. What kind of girl do you take me for?”

Iris doesn’t bother responding in favor of trying to roll Lillium’s pant legs up with his feet, pressing his soles firmly against Lillium’s skin.

“Oh, what the fuck. Why are your feet so cold?”

“Pants. Off.”

“Fine, but only if you put some socks on. You’re like a literal block of ice. Seriously, is your blood circulating at all?”

Iris shoves Lillium with his admittedly minimal strength, yet still succeeds in pushing him off the edge of the bed. However, Lillium’s descent drags all the blankets off with him, leaving Iris to be exposed to the cold air.

Paying no heed to Lillium’s whining about betrayal and Iris being “literally the worst,” Iris leans over the edge of the bed to grab his socks off the top of the clothing pile where he had left them earlier. He notes with some satisfaction that the thick cotton does indeed immediately make his feet feel warmer. Lillium climbs back into the bed eventually, pants now discarded to the back of the armchair with his jacket and gun holster. He fluffs and straightens the blankets, tossing them up in the air and letting them settle back down over the two of them. They face each other.

“Happy now?”

Instead of replying, Iris scooches forward, so they’re nearly pressed chest to chest in the center of the bed and places his hands on the back of Lillium’s neck. Lillium breathes in sharply between his teeth.

“Your dad is Frosty the Snowman, I swear to God. Arctic tundra of a human being.”

“Mmm, and you’re a toaster oven. Makes my hands nice and warm.”

They settle into silence, adjusting their positions to be more comfortable. Lillium presses forward, looping his arm around Iris’s waist. Their breaths mingle as they breathe in and out, in and out, erasing the separation between them as the lines between what is Lillium and what is Iris blur in the darkness. Even this close together, Iris cannot quite make out the details of Lillium’s face. Only the impression of the bridge of his nose, his brows, his long lashes. Iris knows that there are a few tiny freckles beneath Lillium’s eyes, and he pretends that he can see them now if he looks closely enough.

“Lillium,” Iris says softly as though telling a secret or seeing the vastness of the starry sky for the first time. Lillium rubs small circles into the skin on Iris’s hip from where his tank top has been rucked up. “What I said earlier on the roof, I’m sorry. It was cruel, and wasn’t true. I shouldn’t have said any of those things. I just, I don’t know. Lillium, you’re important to me, and not just because you helped me escape the tower. I want you to be in my life. Lillium, I, I really--”

And rather than finishing his thought, Iris leans forward and closes that last inch that separates them. Lillium’s lips are soft against his, and a small gasp passes between them as a worshipper would when greeted by his god. Iris’s pulse races, every part of him alight with nerves and panic and, and--

Lillium is kissing him back. Pressing back into him and using his hand on Iris’s waist as leverage to draw them impossibly closer together. Iris loses himself to the sensation, pulling back only when he feels a flicker of tongue against his bottom lip.

Iris breaks the silence between them.

“I tried making eggs today like the ones you make. The, uh, the sunny side up ones. It didn’t really work out at all. They stuck to the pan and then the yolk broke as well, so it kind of ended up being a mess. It tasted a bit rubbery, too.”

Lillium stares at him, the slight glow to his eyes rendering him as both the headlights and the deer caught within them. And then he grins and laughs and kisses Iris again.

“I’ll teach you how to make them correctly in the morning, yeah?”

And oh, he thinks to himself, Iris Black is in love with Lillium White.

**Author's Note:**

> And perhaps Lillium White loves Iris Black as well.
> 
> Ngl, one of my favorite parts of this is that Huy Fong chili sauce still exists in the post apocalypse.
> 
> Iris: pspsps get in bed with me  
> Lillium: (ﾐⓛᆽⓛﾐ)
> 
> Comments and kudos feed the soul!


End file.
